


Tales of Vagrancy

by m_rosenkov (orphan_account)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Universe, Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, One Shot Collection, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13854402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/m_rosenkov
Summary: link to chapter listEustass ‘Captain’ Kid and The Surgeon of Death were never going to live a normal life.(kidlaw/lawkid oneshots, prompts, drabbles. ratings and warnings at the beginning of every chapter. message meon tumblrfor any requests)





	1. goodmorning (canonverse, fluff)

**goodmorning.**

> **_lets just enjoy this morning while we’re alive, yeah?_ **

**Characters:** _Kid, Law_

**Themes:** _Romance, fluff, Law POV, i wrote this on a too hot day in the space of an hour so y’know. apologies for the absolute lack of plot the writing and everything in between_

**Rating:** General

* * *

It is the way the morning streams through his window the next day, the ticking of the clock on the beside—it is Penguin yelling down the hall and Jean Bart’s low, patient response. It’s the muffled chatter of a marketplace outside that lines the docks, someone bartering the price of apples, and the smell of salt heavy in the air as a raucous caw of seagulls takes to the sky—

And Law stops.

“Are you awake?”

His voice is so quiet, his only answer the gentle _click_ of the cabin door closing behind him. Kid is drenched in the orange sunrise, blankets frustratingly thrown aside in the too warm morning heat. Beads of sweat already trace down his bare skin, but his breathing is even, calm, peaceful, each rise and fall a rhythmical constant. He’s sprawled across the mattress, face half buried in the feather pillows, arm dangling over the side and fingers grazing the fur rug.

“Well.”

Law steps forward—

hesitates—

sighs.

Kid is … gorgeously serene. Exposed, like an open book. Safe. Calm. Law fears he could stare forever, but _that_ is just ridiculous, right, because he has better things to do, many things to see and this is just Eustass Kid, a total pest of a captain that hasn’t left him alone for two years, so—so…

So.

There is a weakness here inside of him, a vulnerability that clenches his heart, that holds him still; but he does not stop staring, he does not turn away. Law’s heart is thudding so hard in his chest he fears a cardiac arrest, and with another sigh—more frustration than anything else—he crosses the room, placing two mugs of coffee on the beside.

It’s louder than necessary, a solid _thunk_ on the wood, but it has the desired effect as Kid rolls over with a very loud, very annoyed groan.

“Good morning, Eustass- _ya._ ”

“ _What_?” he snaps, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the grossly cheerful sunlight. His body is still loose and heavy with sleep, and he mumbles something that makes no sense—a threat, no doubt—into the crook of his elbow.

“It’s morning,” Law clips. He takes place on the bed next to him, sheets still wonderfully warm, grabbing his mug and breathing in deep. Loud laughter drifts in from outside, and he adds, “I bought you coffee.”

Kid just grunts.

Law is made for silence, but he’s feeling oddly adventurous today, strangely at home. He drinks his drink and lets the seconds pass into minutes before he talks about the docks outside, the merchants that line the buildings, the rumbling of thunder that threatens the sky. He doesn’t even care if Kid is listening at this point, savouring the taste of coffee on his tongue and this strange unfurling in his chest—a relaxation that takes over his whole being.

Eventually, he runs out of coffee and solo conversation. Placing the empty mug on the bedside, he stretches, saying between yawns, “I need to walk the ship with Shachi, so you should…”

He lets the sentence fade without thought. Kid has fallen back asleep, hand now draped over Law’s lap, shoulders lifting from a breath in—

pause—

out.

Law finds himself whispering, “ _Oh_ ,” adjusting slightly under the hold on his legs, heavy as a cat. He clears his throat, unsure why it feels so tight, why there’s a lump there that he just can’t swallow past. Absently, he runs his hand through Kid’s hair, letting the fine strands slide between his fingers, damp from the humidity of the room.

They have spent countless nights together, many morning afters, but Law has never quite seen Kid like this. He thumbs his cheek, so white against his own tanned skin, something odd weighing in the air.

It feels very important being like this, trapped in this room, Kid only his, the world so distant through that small, circular window.

“Maybe—”

Law frowns, voice drifting to nothing. Kid’s skin is very pale, he can almost see the veins tracing his cheeks. Law leans over, touching his lips to them, breath fluttering oddly with his own haphazard heartbeat.

“I love you,” he breathes, and that sounds better than _maybe_ , that sounds better than silence.

There is no response, of course. No catching of breath, no twitch of closed eyes. A man who is usually so difficult to shut up, and yet.

Yet.

Rain starts to patter outside, marring the glass, and Law is painfully, forcefully, aware just how heavy his heart is, how warm he feels. He moves Kid’s arm gingerly, wriggling to lie down in the bed by his side. The room is darkening with the rain, all traces of sunlight gone, and Law takes a deep, deep breath, whole body relaxing in the mattress.

Terrifying. To realise how much he cares.

There’s movement just to his side, and Law turns his head, brown eyes blinking blearily back at him. “Wha?”

Law smirks. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Kid blinks a few times, small smile playing the corners of his lips, before he closes his eyes, body falling back into the even in—out—in of each gentle breath. Law reaches for him, running his hands through the shock of red hair once more. The rain desperately tries to enter, this steady _tap, tap, tap_ that beats with each rise and fall of Kid’s chest.

He swallows. “Eustass- _ya_.”

Ah.

There’s nothing to say, and Law just leans forward into him. He doesn’t kiss him—not yet—thumb rubbing over Kid’s lips, his eyes, his cheeks—reading every inch of him by touch alone, feeling every breath on his skin.

And he wonders if he should say those three words again, just to see how true they really are, just to feel again that sense of vulnerability, that humanity that he had so long forgotten.

“Oi.” Law blinks, and Kid is awake again, more alert, staring back at him with a small frown. He asks, “What are you doing?”

Law pulls away as if electrocuted. “Nothing.”

He’s immediately tense, uncomfortable. Law goes to move but Kid captures his chin in his hand, holds him there for a beat, nothing but the rain and distant laughter breaking the morning.

His eyes are full of colour, hazel depths and Law cant—won’t—look away.

Then Kid kisses him.

Law is surprised for only a moment before he opens his mouth in response, Kid’s tongue slipping against his, his hand moving from Law’s chin to arm in response and tracing the muscles of his shoulder.

They lay tangled like that for some time, kiss deepening with every second, hands roaming bare skin wherever they can touch, before Kid finally pulls away.

Law can feel the steady thrumming deep in his chest, this gentle tug of his heart. Kid’s eyes burn with emotion, and Law almost laughs then, _almost_ forgets to breathe.

He smiles, finding Kid’s mouth again, nothing to say, nothing he _wants_ to say. The rain outside now thunders against the window, and Penguin is yelling down the hall once more, Shachi snapping back—the clock still ticks, merchant’s laughter drifting through the air that’s thick with salt—

—and everything is so blissfully far away; everything but Kid, who is all his, in his arms, kissing him until Law loses all sense of time and place, and it’s just _Them_.

Ah, and what an odd thing, he thinks, realising that someone cares for you too.


	2. balcony on sabaody (modern au, outsider pov)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i deleted a second chapter. Long story short, it was broken into two parts and i realised it was WAY too long for a one-shot collection drabble thing, so maybe i’ll upload it as its own thing if i find time. anyway, here’s some more ficdump.

**the balcony on Sabaody.**

> _**you dont need to be alone** _

  **Characters:** _Robin, Kid, Law_

**Themes:** _character study,  modern au, romance, outsider POV_

**Rating:** General

* * *

Every day, as the sun starts to set, Nico Robin sits on her balcony chair (the one with gaudy roses, a present from her mother) with a cup of tea (English Breakfast, black, one sugar) and opens her novel (this one varies, but right now: _Heart of Gold_ ), and does not read a word.

You see, in the building opposite, there is a story writing itself, all on its own.

It was over a year ago when it started, a too hot summer that found her on the balcony all day. She watched as the couple moved into their apartment, petty bickering and prattle drifting through the air across to her home. It was funny. Polar opposites, she realised immediately, and how entertaining _that_ was. The taller one with red hair was covered in grease and refused to wear a shirt, and the other—tattoos, everywhere, with this straight-backed pose that oozed through his haughty, gloomy attitude.

She remembers Broody snapping, “We could have had this done by now if you didn’t hire that _rubbish_ truck,”

and then Mechanic had laughed, a loud and long sound that was so full even Robin had to smile, “Yeah, it was pretty shit, aye. Not my fault you have all this junk, though.”

Evenings became ritualistic for her, their humble house wrapping together in a rather delightful way. On their balcony sits a lone chair and table, stacked high with forgotten beer bottles and tools. There is a palm that had turned brown and dead long ago, and a foam mat for their dog Bepo (a Samoyed, very cute).

They, themselves, breeze out on that small rectangular concrete every now and then, doing chores or talking, or simply just sitting alone in the silence. Their lives fill Robin with a peculiar sense of nostalgia, with _Déjà vu_ she just can’t quite explain; and so she watches, hoping to piece it all together as contentment settles heavy in her chest.

On this chill winter afternoon, Broody is on the chair. He is dressed in a ridiculously long black coat, spotty beanie pulled over his head. He flicks through a large textbook, absently patting the dog asleep by his side. Robin, though far away, finds herself oddly fascinated by his apt concentration, staring over the rim of her tea cup as he taps the side of the text, tattoos on his hands rippling in the setting sun. He looks incredibly calm—happy, one could even say—lost in the words on the page, warm breath rising like smoke around him.

She admires a man who can enjoy his own company.

However, as with most things, it does not last long, and Robin is only able to read half a paragraph of her own book before a clear _bang_ echoes through the afternoon silence, snapping her concentration. She looks up to see the Mechanic in the doorway of their balcony. He is grinning like a maniac, talking excitedly of something and waving his arms about. His voice is surprisingly soft and low, and she can only catch parts of sentences and broken clippings of words— “… found it… lost… can you believe it?”

Broody does not look from his book or dog, breeze ruffling the lapels of his coat as he idly turns a page.

“Oi.”

Robin hears that, and watches, amused, as Mechanic saunters out into the cold and kicks Broody’s legs. She can see even from here the burning glare that is sent his way, book slammed closed with a clear _snap_ that cuts through the air. Some words are said from the raven hair, a low drawl, and then the Mechanic is laughing—that full, whole, infectious thing that Robin quietly sniggers at.

Broody then rises from his chair, grabbing the grubby shirt of his partner and pulling him down into a kiss. It is a long, languorous thing, his hands moving up and disappearing into that shock of red hair, book dropped with a _thud_ on the floor. They press into one another, as if melting—and then, they sway. A smooth movement, not breaking apart as they sweep around the balcony, utterly content, so beautifully in love.

After a blissful minute, Mechanic pulls away. Says something that Broody snaps at, instantly icy and irate. The redhead laughs again, and they retreat into their apartment, Broody calling out to Bepo who trots in slowly after the pair.

She hears the glass door slide shut with a _whoosh_ , and Robin downs the last of her now-cold tea and stands, suddenly chilly. She rubs her arms, smiling to herself and deciding then to call an old friend, to message another. Perhaps she will even invite him over for dinner, and they too can dance over the concrete in the orange glow, like they did so many years ago.

 

Another sun sets over the city of Sabaody, and Nico Robin closes her balcony door, suddenly feeling not-so-alone—

—And she does not look back.

 

* * *

  **injury. (canonverse, dialogue only)**

> **_i love you but please stop being yourself every now and again_ **

  **Characters:** _Kid, Law_

**Themes:** _v. poor attempt at humour, dialogue only, lots of swearing, 300 words_

**Rating:** Teen and up

* * *

“I just don’t understand how this keeps happening.”

“Eh. Y’know. Saving children and shiiiii— _fuck_. Ow? Ow!”

A smirk. “Stay still, Eustass- _ya_.”

“You—I know you can do this without—OW. MOTHERFU—”

“So, how did this happen again?”

…

“I’m going to take your silence as it was your fault.”

“Pfft.”

“Someone looked at you wrong—”

“Maybe.”

“—in a bar, so you’d had too much to drink—”

“Wha— _no_.”

“—which lead you to pick a fight—”

“Fff—ahhh—is that really fucking necessary—oi, wait—what—what the fuck is that.”

“A needle.” _Tap, tap_. “An anesthetic to be exact, since you’ve shown that you are incapable of— _stay still_.”

“I don’t like needles.”

“Stop pouting.”

“Trafalgar. You _know_ I don’t.”

“It’s not like I’m doing this to personally torture you.”

“That is exactly something you would do.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

…

“Don’t move, Eust—”

“Yeah, yeah, just hurry the fuck u-ughh.”

“Stay still.”

“Shit, fuck, _obviously_.”

…

…

“What, Trafalgar?”

“Just… Nothing.”

“Trafalgar.”

“Hmmm?”

“ _Law_.”

A sigh. “Just, what if I wasn’t here, Eustass- _ya_? What if the bullet actually hit its target?”

“Eh. Guess I’d be dead.”

“That’s _not_ funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

…

…

“Oi, Trafalgar, stop with the fuckin’ brooding, it’s all good.”

“Yes. But it almost wasn’t.”

“So? Quit it. You always gotta drag down the mood.”

“You are _bleeding_ all over _my_ cabin—of _course_ I’m ‘dragging the mood down’.”

“Hahaha—ow! Owww! Fuck, sorry sorry—fuck I said ‘ _sorry’_ , okay? Just—ow!”

…

“Regardless, I suppose your right.”

“Yeah, heh. Good thing I’m fucking a surgeon.”

“Hm.”

…

…

“Hey, you wanna…?”

“Eustass- _ya_ , just let me fix the wound first.”

“That’s not a no.”

…

…

“Oi, Trafalgar?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thanks. For—ahhh… For doing this all the time, and—um… ahhthanksforcaring.”

“More of a curse than a blessing, Eustass- _ya_ , but. You’re welcome. Now please stop trying to die.”

“Listen, that asshole was staring for like _ten_ seconds, so—OW. FINE. OKAY. HAPPY? YOU FU—”


	3. true lovers pt. 1 (soulmate au, romance)

**true lovers.**

**pt 1 of 2**

> **True lovers; In a different time, a different place; We could have been. Two lovers; In a different life, a different space; We would have been. _True Lovers,_ Holy Holy**

 

 **Characters:** _Kid, Law, multiple OCs_

 **Themes:** _Soulmate AU, so many AU’s in AU’s, part 1 of 2, romance, drama, college, space, fantasy—I wrote this in the space of two hours, and it’s not edited, just as a heads up. Prompt from a friend to write something based off the song I was listening to. (1800 words)_

 **Rating:** Mature—drug and alcohol mention, violence, mild sexual content.

 

* * *

 

 Imagine they meet at the Sabaody Archipelago.

Kid dreams of the sea, the curve of blood on his blade, and finding the One Piece.

Law is just trying to survive.

They make eye-contact across the crowded room of the auctioning house, and later, they fight, side-by-side.

Kid likes the way Law refuses to listen to him; Law loves that Kid is free.

_—but wait_.

***

He meets Eustass Kid at one of Ray’s infamous parties.

Law’s twenty-two here, and young—full of boyish cockiness and brash impatience. He’s been studying medicine since he was eighteen; dreaming of an anarchist utopia at the age of ten. At some point after he’d moved away from home, he started designing and selling his own clothing. He trades it out of the boot of his shitty yellow car at the Saturday Night Markets, the extra coin used to fuel these lazy weekends of smoking and drinking.

It’s a good life.

The house is the same as it always is—slightly filthy with all the doors wide open, random groups of people smoking on the front porch. Jon is alone by the entrance with whiskey in hand, nodding a hello as he taps his cigarette ash into the pot plant at his side; Ray appears at some point and hands him a too-warm beer with a sleazy wink.

It tastes disgusting.

Law takes seat in the only free armchair of the loungeroom, listening to the conversation around him, accepting every drink that passes his way. Rika is nattering about philosophical bullshit on the rug at his feet, and he throws in a sentence every now and then, if only to poke the fire.

As always, she bites, snapping at him to shut the fuck up. Adds, “You can’t just let people get away with doing bad things.”

“No,” Law drawls, stretching his legs out over the arms of the chair, “you cannot. But who decides what’s bad and good, Ri- _ya_? You?”

It is so easy to fix the world’s problems, in a musty old armchair, smoke clouding the gaudy wallpaper of a cheap sharehouse. He takes a sip of his beer and hums.

“You are such a—”

Rika pauses her insult. Tilts her head. Law follows her gaze with lazy curiosity, beer half-way to his mouth—and that’s when their eyes meet, across another crowded room, the space still too small for the both of them.

Kid stares for an age. Law smirks and gives him the finger.

It all feels very normal—

—But it’s not.

It’s not because Law remembers—suddenly, intensely—how when Kid fixes anything he always gets grease on his fingertips, his nails black-soot covered. How he likes his coffee (white, no sugar) and strawberry jam. It’s not normal because when he’s stressed Law knows he clenches his fist by his side—and how he tastes like metal and smells like burning oak, skin so pale under a blanket of stars and moonlight that Law cannot recall.

Kid pushes through the crowd slowly, and Rika pulls him over, linking her tiny arms through his. Law’s still sprawled in the chair. He’s trying to look away, but he can’t, not quite yet, not right now.

Does she know he likes his coffee white?  _Does she know?_

Rika’s face swims into his vision, and she says, voice like satin, “Law, this is my boyfriend, Kid! I told you about him, remember?”

Law manages a terse, “Hello,” heart beating extraordinarily fast.

And Kid grins.

 

— _but wait._

***

The shuttles fucked. Like, well and truly.

It’s not the day or the planet for it, and Trafalgar seems intent of reminding him so with every frustrating back and forward pacing he does across the sand. Kid can’t see him beneath the metal shitbox but he can see his boots pass by every second, back, forward, back, forward, _tap, tap, tap_. It’s enough to drive a weaker man insane.

“They’re coming.” Trafalgar’s face appears in the gap between ground and ship, and his eyes are like daggers through his helmet’s visor. “Hurry up.”

“Nup. It’s not happening.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because—” Kid slides out from underneath the ship and stands, stretching his muscles slowly. In the blaring D2276 sun he can see every dent and kink in his well-worn armour. He taps a particularly nasty one on his breastplate with his finger, feeling the carbon flex against his abs. “Shit.”

“Because _why_ , Eustass- _ya_?” Trafalgar has a dangerous edge to his voice, and he points, quite viciously, across the desert. “We can’t fight an army of Linchins.”

“Duh.”

More glaring.

Kid sighs. “It just needs time. Gyros are all fucked, they gotta realign.”

“Time? How much time? Minutes? Hours? Days?”

Kid fidgets.

“ _Eustass-ya_.”

“Dunno.”

“You. Don’t. Know.”

“Yep.”

“We have landed on a planet whose environment is completely hostile to human life—”

“Mmm.”

“—with an army of giant aliens running across the desert towards us _right now—_ ”

“Ahh.”

“—and _all_ of our communication relays are busted—”

Kid spreads his hands out before him. “Hey, it’s not all bad.”

Trafalgar looks _dark_ , practically sucking in the blinding light of the Red Giant expanding above them.

“How,” he says, incredibly slowly, “is this not all bad?”

The dust cloud of a raging army is accelerating at breakneck speed towards them, a cacophony of noise and clanging armour. Kid can almost make out individual beings in the mass, and the sun is so fucking hot, his HUD flashing about a thousand warnings before his eyes about radiation and gas composition and blah, blah, blah.

“Well, we could be alone. One of us could have died. Y’know.” He shrugs. “Shit like that.”

“I’m going to run now.” Trafalgar pulls out his gun. “Don’t follow me.”

Kid grins at him. “Nah. You’d miss me.”

He smirks then. Gives him the finger. Says something like, “Shut the fuck up.”

But then he grabs his wrist, dragging Kid around the ship, both breaking into an all-out sprint across the scorching desert.

They’re not going to make it, and that’s okay.

Kid knows they’ll be back.

 

— _but wait._

***

 _The Black Griffon_ is a pub just outside the kingdom of Rookwell, sandwiched between Charlotte’s Pass and the Silent Sea. It’s a haven for travelers and mages alike, run by a grumpy elf named Eller, whose teeth are all crooked and yellowing, one ear cocked too far right.

He says, by way of greeting, “Waddaya want?” like he hasn’t seen Law a hundred times in the past year alone, like the mage doesn’t have a tab that could buy the whole establishment on its rotting fixtures.

Law waves his hand vaguely, and Eller mutters something about ‘damn vagrants’ and ‘fucking mages’, pouring him a drink of his worst ale. It sloshes out of the tankard as it’s passed over—and it’s warm, too, which is just peachy considering how hot it is this evening.

Law drinks it anyway.

“You find the dragon?” Eller asks.

“Does it,” Law drawls sarcastically, calmly unwrapping the dirty, bloody bandage on his upper arm, “look like I did?”

Eller whistles, long and low, as the wound is exposed. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

What was once skin is now just a meaty mess of blood and fat. It is truly disgusting, and rancid to smell. Whatever poison coated this dragon’s claws had numbed the area, but shit. He’s pretty sure no amount of healing is going to save his arm.

Eller fetches a bucket of water and a cloth, passing them over and refilling the empty tankard. Law soaks the rag, and starts to clean the wound, hissing slightly if just for effect. Really, he can’t feel anything. A blessing, in its most ironic form—so he continues the process, Eller leaving him well enough alone and continuing to pour his drinks with unhappy muttering.

That’s when the warrior enters.

It’s a big scene, of course. Kid always has to make a scene. He comes through the back door, smashing it open with his foot, and he is _dragging_ something behind him. Something big. Eller makes a huge fuss, rushing over and nattering about wood and expenses and all this other shit, spindly arms waving in the air.

Law continues with his wound, craning his neck a little to see what’s happening. The man’s a fighter, he can see that much. Shock of red hair, scars just everywhere, and a grin that is positively sadistic. He has a belt slung over his shoulder, full of daggers and metals and pouches, with enough rings on his finger to buy the whole country.

Oh. And he also has a dragon’s head behind him.

“Oi. Move, geezer.” He shoves Eller to the side, continuing this awkward dragging. He probably gets about three steps though before he stops, panting, hands on knees, and curses. “Damn, it’s not fitting through the door.”

Law huffs a laugh. The rag in his hand is dripping with blood, and he throws it back into the bucket, inspecting his wound. Now it’s clean, he can see it’s not so bad. A little healing magic once his mana is restored, and it will be okay. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Hey. Mage.”

It is his person that catches Law off guard, this time. Intimate physical details that have him stiffening in the barstool, mind racing with memories he hasn’t lived—ones he could not even understand in this world.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t turn.

The warrior settles by his side then, leaning on the bar with one arm casually, that grin in place. Law takes a good long look at him, quite enjoying the play of the sunset in his red eyes, very keenly aware of every weapon and muscle the man sports.

There’s a long, fresh cut down his right arm, and a grizzly burn on his chest. Law does not remember these, but he remembers those hands; the way they slide over his bare skin, how unbelievably _strong_ he is in the silence of midnight. Law remembers passing him on an endless ocean, studying one another by touch alone, the feel of his tongue tracing every curve and dip of his muscle.

He asks, “Wanna take this head to the King?”

Law blinks. Can’t think of anything to say but “Huh?”

“This head—” The warrior jerks his thumb back in the direction of the dragon’s head, like the bleeding mass of animal in the doorway needed to be pointed out. “Let’s take it and get the bounty.”

“I—what?”

“You don’t remember?”

He’s remembering a lot of things, but none of it makes sense, none of it has anything to do with dragons.

Law thinks about kissing him.

“I saw you fighting it this morning,” he continues. “Saved it from eating your head—but, you were pretty gone then, haha. Nasty cut by the way, is that gonna heal?”

Law breathes, “Eustass Kid.”

“Yeah.” Kid grins. It’s too real. “Mage—Trafalgar, right? You’re a healer?”

“Something like that.”

“So, wanna take the head to the royals?” He starts walking away without waiting for an answer, laughing over his shoulder, “Oi, if the king doesn’t pay us, let’s just leave it in the entrance of the castle.”

Law stands. Rests his staff on one shoulder with a smirk. Says: “Whatever," over the grumbling of Eller _—_

And follows in this life, too.

 

_—but wait._


	4. The Hamlet. (college au, gen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will continue true lovers at some point but here's another... thing?? au building, probably going to expand into a proper fic at some point once i finish my current multi-chapter. ANYWAY. for matheMagical, who loved the previous college Law :)

**the hamlet.**

 

 

> **don't silence our voices.**

 

 **Characters:** _Kid, Law, (Sanji cameo)_

 **Themes:**   _college au, some anti-gov hate, anarchist law, swearing, kid's just an art student who's handing his project in on time for a change - way to go. kinda unfinished, kinda fic scrappy-ideasy (1800 words)_

**Rating: Gen**

* * *

 

 

They’re so young here, right—a cocky youthfulness that’s full of brash arrogance and bold claims. Just on the edge of twenty, living in dormitories and drinking every weekend. Give them enough time, and they’ll solve the world’s problems—just like that. Like it’s that _easy_.

Law works at the little coffee van in The Hamlet. It’s a small paved carpark, wedged between apartment blocks and a government office building—law courts, if he remembers correctly, suits loitering around outside in their designer shoes and with their leather briefcases, talking on the phone too loud about nothing important. There are rumours of the council closing it down, some of food vans already packing it and leaving before they’re kicked out. Art students from the university held a protest there last Saturday—the slogans were something like “Freedom over Bureaucracy”, like _that_ would convince the council to keep open a dirty little ex-carpark with only a coffee van and a pop-up bar. He heard it went badly. Heat got arrested, and Bonney was _furious._

“They’re trying to silence our voices.”

Right.

So, Kid didn’t expect much when he rocked up, on his way to his first and last class of the day. But he smelt the coffee from around the corner—couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a pick-me-up before his presentation. He had his sculpture on a pair of rollers Killer had lent him, the thing too big for his shitty car—not that it’s registered to drive anyway, but that’s another story—and he was thirty minutes ahead of schedule, which was a pleasant change.

He’s pulling out his wallet from his jeans pocket, when the barista at the register leans forward, looking across the paved courtyard with a raised brow. He’s really familiar. All angular features, tired eyes, this dark broodiness that is—well, fucking hot. Dressed in an oversized hoodie and tight jeans, he reeks of coffee and spices, hair just kinda flopping in his grey eyes.

“Oi, what’s that?”

Kid turns away, following the jerk of his thumb. “Oh. Art project. And just a cap, thanks.”

The barista grunts, pulling back and tapping lazily on the iPad before him. “What beans?”

“I—” Kid frowns. “What?”

The guy rolls his eyes, and that’s when Kid notices the tatts on his hand, creeping up into his sleeve—swirling lines and circles. “Ethiopian, Colombian, Indo—”

“Trafalgar?”

The bored façade cracks. There’s a frown of annoyance—then an eyebrow raise of recognition. A smirk. “Eustass Kid.”

He doesn’t say anything more than that, which is, well… not surprising. Kid remembers running into Trafalgar Law at one of Ace’s infamous parties a year ago, and he hadn’t said much then, either. He was fucking cool, though. Med student, already owned his own house, designed his own clothes—tasted like spice and wood. Kid felt rather stupid next to him, a poor art student who was already a week behind in his rent after loosing a bet to Killer on who could down a whole keg in a minute (turns out, _not_ Heat). The only thing Kid really had going for him was Law’s number in his phone—a phone which he had lost, at that party, not an hour after Law had left.

Ha, ha.

“Haven’t see you in a while. You still studying?”

Law taps away at the screen, drawling, “Yeah. Unfortunately. Working and studying. Oi, the Ethiopian beans are really good, you okay with that?”

“Whatever.”

“Better black, though.” Law moves to the coffee machine, warming it up with one hand and shoving the other into the pocket of his hoodie. It’s a gaudy yellow with black sleeves and lettering. Quirky. “Your art’s looking good.”

Kid glances back towards his sculpture. Bits of metal jutting out everywhere—he’d tried to capture ‘nature’ in something so obviously manmade. The steel had a lot of rust over it now, and yeah, he was pretty proud of this one, even if he really had no idea what he was trying to convey through it.

“Thanks.”

“You ever go to the Flea Markets?”

“What’s that?”

The coffee machine starts screaming, and Law turns away briefly, doing his thing, the steam blowing up, smell of ground beans filling the space. He works silently for a couple of seconds, then says, “It’s a local market down at the showground near Shakky’s Rip-Off. People sell shit they’ve made. A lot of the public servants go down there to furnish their apartments—” he says this with a roll of his eyes, and Kid snorts, “—Your stuff would sell really well there, I reckon.”

Law walks back over, hands him the filled coffee cup with a smirk.

Kid says, “Thanks.” Then, “I wanted a cap.”

“It’s better black.”

He frowns.

Law waves a languid hand, pulling out his phone from his pocket and turning away. He drawls, “Guess I’ll see you this Saturday, Eustass- _ya_?”

 

Shakky’s Rip-Off is notorious for—well, ripping people off. Government workers love the place; she says the high pricing drives them in, even if the beer is just beer—and shit beer, at that. Kid’s not so sure it’s the price that pulls them in, so much as it is that Shakky’s pretty fit, and her husband Rayleigh being some big name in the senate.

Regardless, Kid takes her advice, trying out the pricing strategy. Some scrap bit of metal with a pattern cut into it? 500 beli. Art sculptures from previous classes that were just taking up cupboard space? 1000.

Thirty minutes in, and he has sold everything.

“Oh, it’s just _beautiful_ ,” one woman coos, after buying his last bit of rubbish. “You are a talent. Young entrepreneurs like you drive our beautiful city.”

It takes a lot of self-control on his behalf to not laugh in her face.

The markets are still going strong, so he packs up his little store—which is actually just Killer’s van with the doors open, and a chalkboard sign reading ‘Kid’s Piracy’—and wanders around. There are small pop up streetlamps lining the cobblestone paths, smells of Eastern cuisine floating through the air. A lot of stalls look like ships, all with quirky names and weird peddlers. Kid takes his time, soaking it all in, gathering inspiration, before he sees it—a little yellow car with two people leaning on the passenger door, clothes spilling from the boot and strong smell of tobacco filling the atmosphere around them.

“Oi, Trafalgar.”

Law looks up, smirk already in place. “You came.”

Kid really likes the way his voice sounds when he says that, this hopeful lilt masked with fake indifference. He shrugs in return, but grins. “Wanna get a drink? Turns out metal sells.”

Law huffs a laugh. “Uh-huh.”

By his side, a blonde guy lights up another cigarette, looking weirdly out-of-place in a black suit next to Law’s t-shirt and jeans. He mutters, “I’ll watch the car.”

Law shoves his hands into his pockets and idles up to Kid with a yawn. “I know a good place.”

The place is a little stall, near the end of the markets. It’s surrounded by wooden tables and chairs, and sells booze—the good kind, not the Shakky kind. Kid buys two pints, and they take place on a table near the end, Law sitting next to him. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the wood, drawling strange questions, revealing little to nothing, aloof and untouchable. He has a feral sort of smile, and Kid finds himself staring at it, staring at him, curious and fascinated.

“Are they really closing The Hamlet?”

Law snorts. “Probably.” He takes a long sip of his beer, then pauses. “You know, they want to build apartments there. I heard rumours that one of the government buildings from the South is getting moved just a block away from Hamlet. Replacing art with bureaucracy, where’s the freedom in that?”

Kid shrugs.

“It just—” Law leans forward, hands between his knees, eyes flashing in the darkness, “—pisses me off, you know? They tell us how to live our lives. Those fucking suits that buy my coffee make three times as much as me.” He laughs bitterly. “I just want to be a doctor who’ll do some good, but I have to live ten years on a pathetic wage selling coffee to people who don’t even know where Ethiopia is on a map.” Law looks at him. “What about you?”

Kid downs the last of his drink. “What about me?”

“Well.” He has this way of staring, like he’s seeing right through Kid. “You’re an art student. Did you go to the protests about the Hamlet?”

“Nah. Waste of time.” He swings the empty beer bottle between two fingers, dragging his gaze away from Law. He smells so _good_ though. Like… like coffee and smoke and wood and clean laundry. “Better ways to get their attention.”

“Like what?”

Kid shrugs again. “Graffiti. Heh. Vandalism. Shit like that, people can’t forget.” He pauses for a beat, then says, “The Hamlet is good for art, but it’s not changing the city. The suits think they’re right, you know? They don’t give a fuck about protests on weekends—they’re not even _there_ on weekends. They’ll take all our spaces if there’s money to be made.”

Law’s silent for a long time, turning away, watching as the remaining stalls start to pack down their vans and tents. Eventually, “Right.” Then, a soft chuckle, eyes dancing mischievously as they flick back to Kid. “That’s what I like about people like you. You keep it real.”

Kid’s breath catches in his throat.

Beginnings are so funny, you know. There is caution, dancing around edges, figuring out boundaries. Advancing and retreating, never at the same time, never just _getting_ it. But there is none of that here, and Kid sees Law on his level, understands what they both mean, drawn to something more, something so infinitely _free_.

There is an impeccable second where they just hold one another’s gaze, the air sparking around them; an endlessness to the moment, one he could almost pluck from the air and hold.

Then Law’s phone rings.

“Damn.” He pulls it out. “I forgot about Sanji.”

“The guy at the car?”

“Yeah, he’s a friend of my roommate.”

He stares at the phone for a long time, then looks to Kid, unspoken question hanging between them.

Kid just says, “My band’s playing at Shakky’s next weekend, if you wanna…?” like he isn’t invested, doesn’t care, like it’s not a big deal—

“I’ll be there, Eustass-ya.”

_It’s not a big deal._


End file.
